


My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark

by rubygirl29



Series: Love, Loss, Hope, Repeat [3]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:16:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton's life seems to run in a cycle of love, loss, hope, and repeat. It starts the day he is born.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Part 3 of Love, Loss, Hope, Repeat. This part brings up Clint's past, including physical and sexual abuse. Nothing explicit, but be cautious if these are triggers. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Marvel owns the characters, I own only my words

Clint is heading to the range. It's been a week since he and Coulson returned to S.H.I.E.L.D. , and he's finally cleared medical. The tiresome wound on his arm had stubbornly hung on until the docs found the right antibiotic to beat down the last of the infection. His fingers itch to hold his bow, to feel his muscles flex and gather the energy to send an arrow into flight. 

His plans are interrupted by Coulson's appearance on the range just as He draws to fire the first arrow. Coulson clears his throat and Clint backs off with a sigh. "Sir."

"You have an appointment with Director Fury in ten minutes."

 _Fuck_. He expects Fury will tell him he's a washout, and he'll be back where he was when he was out of the Berets. Since Coulson is watching he carefully racks his bow. "Any idea what he wants?" Of course, Coulson gives nothing away but an enigmatic smile. 

"Don't be late, Barton." 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Nick Fury is the single most terrifying man Clint has ever met. He'd be that even without the carefully cultivated image of a man in black, his face scarred, and his damaged eye covered by a piratical patch. It's more than an image, though. Fury, like Coulson, is the real thing, and that's what Clint respects. 

When he stands in front of Fury, he's wearing an impeccable field uniform and spit-shined boots. He stands at military ease in front of the Director. He's usually ready to tell people to fuck off and leave him to do his job, but this is _Fury_ , whose secrets know secrets and who has the power to reduce him to a greasy spot on the floor. So, he waits respectfully and patiently even though it rubs against his nature.

Fury finally clears his throat and hands Clint a document. "On the recommendations of your senior supervising agent, Agent Coulson, and your current handler, Agent Jasper Sitwell, I am promoting you from Probationary status to Asset/Agent."

Clint tries not to gape at Fury. "Sir? Can you repeat that?"

"Don't be dense, Barton. This is your new contract. Feel free to take your time reading it. Legal will advise you on matters like insurance, next of kin, wills and estates ...

"I don't have next of kin," Clint says. For all he knows that's true.

"Really? That's not what this says." Fury hands Clint a file. "I believe you have an older brother, Barney Barton."

The information staggers him. His blood drains from his face. "Barney? He's alive?"

Fury's one eye sharpens and narrows. "He's alive. I can't guarantee for how long given his current lifestyle and choice of companions."

"Where is he?" Clint has to force the words around the lump of ice that seems to have formed in this chest. 

"I can only tell you he moves around."

Clint feels both hot and cold with anger and shame. "He's my brother! I didn't know if he was alive or dead, or --"

"I told you because if by some chance you should come up against him, you won't be caught off-guard."

Clint can feel the blood drain from his face. "Sir, are you telling me that S.H.I.E.L.D. thinks my brother is its enemy?"

Fury sighs, and if he doesn't exactly soften, at least he looks at Clint he's a human. "Agent, right now, you don't have the clearance, brother or not, to discuss this. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." He keeps his eyes focused and calm. If Fury wants to stonewall him, Clint is going to prove that he can play that game with the best of them. He wants to leave as quickly as possible without tossing his cookies or decking Fury, so he keeps silent.

"As an Asset/Agent, you will be going on missions that will give you a greater degree of autonomy. You will be working with a smaller team and with our best Supervisory Agents."

"Sir, may I ask who I will report to?"

"Agents Coulson and Sitwell have requested you to be on their team. I have decided to honor that request."

"Does Agent Coulson know about Barney?"

"The subject did come up when we discussed your promotion." 

Clint feels like he's been sucker-punched in the gut. It never occurred to him that Coulson would have been told about his background. It never occurred to him that anybody would _care_ about his past. Fuck, there were times when he forgot about it himself. Sometimes he thinks his life began the day he stepped into the recruiting office in Georgia. 

"Is there anything else, sir?" he tries not to choke on the words. 

"Take the contract to legal. They'll go over the fine points. Sign it and return it to me after you talk to them."

"And if I don't sign?"

"You'll be cut loose. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't tolerate cowards or slackers."

"No, sir." Briefly, he wonders if he could make a break from S.H.I.E.L.D. He knows that he won't. He's been alone for too much of his life. It doesn't mean he doesn't want to shoot somebody for dredging up his past. 

He goes to Coulson's office where he sits on the couch with his knees drawn up and tries not to fall to pieces. The one thing he'd never expected was for his past to catch up to him at S.H.I.E.L.D. He didn't know that Barney had returned to the circus, or if he had sought out Duquesne; but then Barney had never believed Clint when he tried to tell him about Duquesnes and what he had done. He'd just told Clint to shut the fuck up and be a man. _Shit happens_ he had sneered. _You're alive, right? What are you gonna do about it? Tell Carson that his top act is a perv? You want to be on the streets? You won't last a day out there._ So, Clint had done nothing, kept quiet, and endured the abuse. 

By the time Coulson opens his office door, Clint has stopped trembling, but Coulson gives him a sharp look. "What's wrong?"

"My S.H.I.E.L.D. files include Barney." 

Coulson doesn't blink. "Your vital records aren't confidential," he says evenly. "It's part of the standard vetting process. Just as we have access to your service records." 

"Fury knows more about my brother than I do," Clint says bitterly. 

"Again, public record. I'm sorry you feel your privacy was invaded, but our background checks are extensive. It's not personal Barton."

"Like hell it isn't! This is my _life._. If I wanted it spread over page one, I would have done it myself."

Coulson sighs. "Barton, your life is _not_ splashed over S.H.I.E.L.D.'s homepage, or newsletter, or press releases. Believe me, it is not first and foremost of the problems on my plate."

"But if anybody can access it, if it's public record -- I'm not stupid, Coulson -- if it were just Barney -- but it's all the shit that comes with my past. How much does Fury know? How much do _you_ know?" His breath is coming fast and hard. He fights for control and realizes that he can't deal with this, not with Coulson looking at him with his kind eyes; like he can see every scar and shame in Clint's past. He turns on his heel and leaves, going to the range where he can lose himself for a few hours.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

_Nock. Draw. Aim. Release. Repeat._

It's the rhythm of his life. No matter the darkness in his life, there is always this. 

_Nock. Draw. Aim. Release. Repeat._

He repeats the motion until his fingers lose their feeling; until bruises form on his forearms under the leather guards, until sweat drips into his eyes, blurring his sight. It doesn't matter; he still hits the bullseye. He's down to his last arrow when a hand grips his forearm.

"Stop it, Barton."

It's too late, the arrow releases, hits the one in the center of the target and knocks it askew by force alone. Whatever compound the shafts are made of, doesn't split. "You can't stop an arrow once it's path is determined," Clint says. "You commit to the shot and take it."

Coulson sighs. "You're bleeding."

"It happens. My fingers will be fine in the morning. I have to build up the calluses."

"I'm not talking about your fingers. You tore the stitches in your bicep."

Clint takes the offered towel from Coulson and wipes his face. He looks at the watery scrawl of blood down his arm. "I thought it was sweat."

Coulson makes a non-committal sound in his throat as he takes a closer look at the wound. "I don't think you'll need to have the stitches replaced. It looks like it will be all right. What's left of the sutures should dissolve on their own." He rustles through Clint's kit until he finds a roll of gauze and some tape; Clint's quick-fix for his fingers on missions that require a lot of shooting. 

Clint doesn't make a sound as Coulson wraps the gauze around his arm. He's more aware of Coulson's touch than he wants to admit. He wants to lean into it, rest there and let Coulson's calm seep into him like water into parched soil. He has a ridiculous impulse to set his hand over Coulson's and hold it there, as if mere touch alone could heal him. 

Coulson gently tapes down the gauze and gives it a final smoothing. "That will do until you get a proper dressing on it."

"Umm, thanks. Sorry about earlier, sir. I was out of line." 

"Clean up and come to my office. We need to talk," Coulson's voice is serious but his eyes are still kind. Clint doesn't think he's going to get tossed out on his ass, but with Coulson, it's hard to tell if it's pity or disappointment. He's seen both of them -- he's been on the receiving end of both of those emotions. When it's disappointment, he's been tempted to fall on his knees and beg forgiveness. When it's pity, he just feels angry. He supposes anger is at least productive. 

By the time he gets to Coulson's office, he's pretty much talked himself into being on his own again. Why that makes him feel nauseous, he doesn't know. It's not like he hasn't been alone before. 

Coulson is on his computer, his eyes glancing from one monitor to the next. Clint looks out the one small window that is apparently Coulson's perk for his Senior Supervisory Agent status. It looks out on the roof of the building next door; the same building Clint had watched the alley from the day of his break-in. He'd never bothered looking into the windows. If he had, would he have seen Coulson? If Coulson had looked out, would he have seen Clint? 

Coulson sighs and turns away from his desk. "Sit down, Agent Barton."

It's the first time he's been called that; not Probationary agent, not Probie. It sounds good and Clint hopes he doesn't lose that status. It's another nail in the coffin of his past. "Yes, sir." He decides this is not the time to be comfortable. He takes the chair across from the desk. "You wanted to talk, sir? Here I am."

Phil's phone rings, saving him. Coulson starts to tell the other party that he's busy, but then he pauses, picks up a pen and starts writing. Clint heads out of the office before Coulson can stop him. He takes refuge on the roof; his aerie where most men feel fear, but he feels freedom. The night is mild, and while the city lights wash out the stars, the quarter moon floats overhead; a silver boat on a midnight sea. 

Clint sits on the wall, his legs dangling over the edge. He breathes deeply, wills his heart to slow down and his body to stop trembling. He's been like this a hundred times with his bow or a gun in his hands, with his sights zeroed on a target. How sick is it that he's more at ease here on the brink than he is in his own room?

A breeze ruffles his hair and he hears the door to the roof scrape against the frame as it opens. Clint doesn't have to turn around to see who it is, he knows it's Coulson. Who else would come after him? He listens to the soft footsteps that scarcely make a sound, even on the gravel. Sitwell has said that Coulson is a fucking ninja. Clint holds his breath, waiting until Phil is standing close enough for Clint's fingers to brush the cuffs of his trousers, but no closer, as if Clint was about to strike. He doesn't. "Coulson, I know you're there."

"You might feel comfortable perched on the edge like that, but us mere mortals would feel better if you at least swung your legs over this way."

Clint has to smile. He does that, slides down and sits with his back against the ledge. "This isn't very secure, sir."

"Secure enough. How do you think I found you?" 

"Cameras can be jammed."

"I'll tell Fury that we need to look into that." Phil sits next to him. To Clint's surprise, Coulson's jacket is thrown over his arm and his tie is loosened. Despite the long day, his shirt is crisp, his features fine and so damn clean-cut that Clint aches to trace them with his fingers. Coulson sets out glasses with two ice cubes in them on the gravel and pours two fingers of bourbon in each, nudging one towards Clint and taking a drink from the other.

Clint isn't much of a whiskey drinker, but he figures Coulson would only pour the best, and he's right. The bourbon is smooth, smokey and slightly sweet. It leaves a warm burn down this throat. They sit and sip, let the wind brush across their faces. Below them, headlights come and go like fireflies; their sound muted by distance. 

The whiskey and silence; the simple ease he feels in Coulson's presence seeps into Clint's bones. He draws a deep breath. "What do you know about me?" he asks. 

"I know you were the best sniper in Afghanistan. I know you saved my life, and the lives of my men. I know that you left the army with enough money to see you through six months, and gave most of it away to the families of servicemen killed in action. I know that you began earning money in a less than savory manner, including as a weapon for hire, and that you came to S.H.I.E.L.D. looking for something or somebody who was responsible for the arson fire that nearly killed your landlords, the Parks."

"Don't lie, Coulson. You know more than that. Fury showed me my file."

Coulson seems to intuit what Clint is asking. He looks out over the lights of Manhattan. "I know you have a brother, and I probably know more about him than you're comfortable with." He looks at Clint's nearly empty glass and lifts a brow.

"Hit it," Clint says, his voice catching in his throat. He waits for Coulson to continue, which he does. 

"You and your brother were born in Waverly, Iowa. Your parents were killed in a car crash. At the time, your father's blood alcohol was well above the legal limit. After your parents died, you and your brother became wards of the state. Your intake physical indicated a number of breaks and spiral fractures that healed badly -- indications of childhood abuse. You remained at the Waverly orphanage for eighteen months after which point, you dropped off the radar." 

Clint had expected him to know at least that much, but he hadn't expected it to sound so pathetically clinical. "You want the whole fucking truth? My father was an abusive drunk. He beat my mother, he beat me for being small and weak. At least that's what I thought. He didn't whale on Barney. Maybe the old man saw himself in Barney. I guess he saw something different in me. He called me a _bastard_. I thought that was just a word. Later, when I was older, I wondered if it wasn't true. When they told me he was dead, I was happy. That's pretty sick, huh?"

"I don't think anybody would blame you for feeling that way."

"It wasn't so bad when it was just me and Barney -- he could be mean, he had -- has -- a bad temper, but he didn't break anything in me until the migrant camp."

"Migrant camp?" Clearly, this is something Coulson didn't know. 

Clint is familiar with all sorts of interrogation techniques and outcomes, including the Stockholm syndrome. Oddly, he doesn't think Coulson is luring him into telling all the details of his life that would reveal weaknesses to S.H.I.E.L.D. He takes a breath and continues. "Yeah. We left the circus the winter I turned sixteen. I had bad bronchitis earlier that year and old man Carson said if I didn't go someplace warm over the winter I'd probably catch pneumonia and die. He found Barney a job cutting cane in Clewiston. Barn and me, we had fake IDs from the carnival so the state couldn't come after us as minors." He casts a sidelong look at Coulson. "You know what happened next?"

"No."

"Google _The Amazing Hawkeye, the World's Greatest Marksman_. Look at the pictures of the kid in the ridiculous purple costume. That's who I was. That's who I am when I look in the mirror."

"How old were you?"

"I started shooting when I was a kid. My eyesight was really good. When Carson found me fooling around with Trickshot's bow and arrow, he gave me to him and Swordsman to train. I was ten years old. By the time I was thirteen, I was better than both of them. Trickshot was okay, I guess. Wasn't too happy when I got my own act, but he still had his knives and his guns, so he was willing to let me be Robin Hood. Swordsman ... " Clint turns his body away from Coulson. "He said I _owed_ him for being a top act. He ... he found a way to collect payment." Clint damns the tremor in his voice. "I don't like people close to me, touching me." 

"I see," Coulson says, his voice heavy with comprehension and faint horror. 

Clint tucks in on himself. Why is he telling Coulson this? He's never told another soul about Swordsman. "His real name is Jacques Duquesne. Ever hear of him? Fury has." He waits for Phil's reaction.

When Coulson speaks, he sounds regretful, almost angry. "Duquesne is on our watch list. He's been running a crime syndicate out of Eastern Europe. Our last contact with him was about six months ago. We're still looking, and I swear if I find him, I'll kill him for you," Coulson says. "Or give him to you."

Clint gives a huff of laughter. "Right. Like that's gonna happen."

"I don't make idle promises." There is no humor in his voice and his eyes are serious.

Clint shivers, wonders if it's getting cold or if the chill is in his bones. The ice in his drink clinks, rattling against the glass. He swallows the last of the bourbon. "It's getting cold," he says. "Time to go inside?"

Coulson nods. He puts his jacket on, but leaves his tie loose. His throat is strong and Clint tries not to stare. he wonders what that skin would feel like under his lips. "I-I have to ... " he takes off down the stairs, calls over his shoulder, "Thanks for the drink, sir." His voice echoes against the concrete stairwell.

He goes to his quarters, slams down the button that locks him in and turns his shower on high. Ignoring the gauze on his arm, he steps under the hard stream. He slicks up his hand with shower gel and jerks off until he sinks to the tile floor, letting the water wash away his come. When he feels clean again, he turns the water off and towels himself dry. He's not cold, not any longer. 

Wearing just a towel draped over his hips, he lies on his bed. Alone in the dark, he lets his mind dwell on long-suppressed thoughts. Due to his life in the Army, his injuries, and his off again/on again relationship with Natasha, he's been mostly celibate. In his past, he's been with men and women; most of them just encounters without any emotional context. There had been a medic in Afghanistan, a night spent with a prostitute in France, rough sex after difficult days of combat ... nothing even hinting at an emotional involvement because the price of that was too high. 

Now there is Phil Coulson, with his kind eyes that crinkle when he smiles, his suits that hide hard muscles trained in combat, and gentle hands that soothe and comfort Clint when he's hurt. With every passing day, Clint feels more bound to him, like Coulson is a homing beacon bringing him to safe harbor. It's a dangerous, compelling thought that he can't resist. 

He still tastes Coulson's whiskey on his breath. Fleetingly, he wonders what it would be like to taste Coulson, to take the whiskey from his tongue. It's not the worst thought to send him to sleep.

**TBC**


End file.
